Dancing on the Edges of Reality
by fiendfall
Summary: The only thing he can remember is the name 'Dean'. And then the man with the sad eyes walks back into his life - but can things ever be the same again? My take on Castiel's return, 7x17. Rated T for attempted suicide and mature themes. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Dancing on the Edges of Reality

**Author:** Westrina

**Summary:** The only thing he can remember is the name 'Dean'. And then the man with the sad eyes walks back into his life - but can things ever be the same again? My take on Castiel's return, 7x17.

**Rating:** T for attempted suicide, language and mature themes. And to be on the safe side =]

**Pairings:** Everything is totally canon in this.

**Genre:** Drama/Family/Angst

**Spoilers:** Practically every season, but mainly 6x21, 6x22, 7x01 and 7x02.

**Disclaimer: **Supernatural, and everything to do with it, is Kripke's. I'm sure we all know this but I have to put it in anyway just in case.

**Author's Note:** Hello everyone! This is my first contribution to Destiel Week, and hopefully I'll extend this story with a few more chapters until next Friday when (if all goes to plan) it'll be completed. (Although, knowing me and my busy life, it may extend beyond then!) It's my own take on how Cas will return - and yes, I know everyone is writing their own, but I simply couldn't resist. I must admit that I know absolutely squat about mental hospitals or conditions, or even hospitals in general. So I'm taking major artistic licence and all my research is Wikipedia-based because I'm lazy like that =] I just hope you like it!

Thanks for reading!

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><p>The pills make everything soft, blurring thoughts together, fuzzing round the hard edges, swilling the dregs of dreams into reality. The colors are all too bright here, the slightly off-white hurts his eyes, the shadows of night too are deep, too frightening. That's why his favorite place is the little garden, the courtyard with the gravel paths, hard wooden benches, and weed-filled beds. He will sit out there for hours, thinking. Sometimes a small bird will come and peck around his feet, for he barely ever moves. He is like a statue, watching the world go by with a careful interest on his face, but nothing more.<p>

He sits back on the hard garden bench, feeling the wooden slats pressing into his thin back. The blue fleece he's wearing is warmer than most of the clothes the patients wear, but it isn't enough to stop the cold completely. He likes the numbing sensation, though. It's almost comforting, much like the drugs the doctors tell him to take. The cold smoothes everything out. And that's helpful when his world won't stop spinning.

The nurses will come for him in an hour or two. They'll help him stand up, even though it's really not necessary. His bones healed months ago, but he's still weak and the nurses can sense weakness. He allows himself a moment of indulgence, hoping that it's the dark-haired nurse who comes to get him. He doesn't know her name, but she has kind eyes. They remind him of someone, but he doesn't know who.

His own eyes scare people. He doesn't understand why, only that he's had more doctors come to see him than he can count. They are all the same. They all wear the same clothes and smell the same way and say the same things. They all tell him to take more of the little white pills that make everything easier. And they all leave as quickly as they have come.

He has no idea how long he has been here, in the hospital. Long enough for the daisies and wild primroses in the courtyard to blossom, bringing with them little pockets of color into his grey and white world, dripping pinks and yellows and greens. When they first appeared, he liked touching their delicate stems and petals, examining their beauty minutely, pressing it all into the back of his mind so he would never forget. He has forgotten too many things, important things. He doesn't want to miss anything else.

He is glad when the nurse comes, because it _is_ the nurse he hoped for. Her face is nice, framed by her dark hair that comes down to her chin. She smiles at him, like she always does, and helps him to stand, like he knew she would.

'Let's get you inside. Are you hungry, Dean?'

The nurses call him 'Dean', because that is the name that is always on his lips when he wakes. He knows it isn't his name, but he can't remember his own name. He sometimes tries to think about who the name really belongs to, but it always leads to the same things - a feeling of loss and guilt in his chest so deep that he cries out, for no reason that he can fathom, and then the velvety blackness of a sedative-induced sleep when the nurses who come running hold him down.

The dark-haired nurse doesn't seem surprised when he doesn't answer her question. Everyone here seems to accept that he doesn't talk. It took a while for them to stop trying to coax him into speech, and he's grateful that he isn't expected to reply any more. It's not that he can't speak, more that he doesn't know what he would say. So all he does is stare. Perhaps that's why people find him so unsettling.

The only time he ever speaks is when he wakes, when he whispers the name Dean. He finds it strangely comforting, although he doesn't know why.

'It's cold today,' the nurse says, leading him back inside the hospital with a smile. 'We'll have to see about getting you something warmer to wear if you're going to spend any more time outside.'

He is the only patient that ever goes into the courtyard, not because the others aren't allowed to, but because he's the only one that wants to. He likes the solitude. He likes sitting alone in the courtyard and thinking of nothing. He likes watching things. Watching the birds, watching the insects, watching the flowers. It's the only place in this monochrome world where he can finally find some semblance of piece. Even if it is short lived.

The nurse with the brown hair understands this. It's one of the reasons he likes her.

'We've got a new patient coming in sometime tomorrow,' the nurse says as they walk along the grey corridors. He walks slowly because everything he does these days is unhurried; maybe it's the drugs he's on or maybe it's just his nature. He can't remember a time before the drugs so he can't tell the difference.

'I think it would be good if you show him around,' the nurse continues. She always leaves gaps in the conversation where he can speak if he wants to, but he never does. She's one of the few people who haven't given up on him ever speaking again. She's one of the few people who don't treat him like he's insane or stupid or both.

'Would that be okay?' she turns to look at him; he's half a step behind her, standing close to her because it feels familiar to be that close to someone. The people here don't like it, he's heard them talking about 'personal boundaries'. But he doesn't understand.

He pulls his eyes up from the floor with some difficulty and meets her gaze, unblinking. There's a question in her eyes, the usual kindness, and the promise that she won't push him to do anything he doesn't want to. He's grateful for that.

He gives her a small nod of assent, and she smiles.

'Thank you, Dean.'


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you all for your reviews! They make me very happy =]

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><p>Dean woke in a hospital chair for the third night running, his joints unfolding like self-assembly furniture, creaky and flimsy and feeling like they were missing a screw. He hadn't changed his clothes since he first got here – hell, he'd barely moved from this chair. A few nurses had ineffectually tried to explain that visiting hours were over – they'd ended long ago – but there was something in the desperate, broken look in his eyes that promised violence if he was moved.<p>

So Dean stayed, listening to the mildly comforting yet totally alien beep of whatever machines his little brother was hooked up to today and trying not to think of why he was here in the first place.

Dean looked down at his brother's sleeping face, still pale, tired, drawn. All of this was his fault. All of it.

He stood suddenly, feeling dangerously close to kicking something in his anger and self-loathing. What kind of a brother would ignore Sammy so badly as to drive him to _this_?

Sam had assured him that he was okay, he was coping, Dean didn't have to worry. And maybe Dean had believed him, not because he genuinely thought it to be true, but because he had wanted it to be so badly. He hadn't even wanted to consider the possibility that Sam wasn't okay. And he'd thrown himself into catching these damn Leviathans because they had taken what little he had left after the Apocalypse: Cas. Bobby. Hell, even his car.

He'd just forgotten that he had Sam left, too. He'd forgotten how easy it would be to lose that last thing he had left.

He took a swing at the wall and relished the pain that throbbed in his knuckles afterwards.

Fuck this. Fuck it all. All he did was to help people, to protect Sam, to stop the bad guys, and now what? He was just taking hit after hit and the world just expected him to roll with all the punches, come up joking, like he always had?

Well, fuck that.

'Dean?'

The voice caught him off-guard, and he turned suddenly, guiltily, to see his brother propped up on pillows and, damn, if he didn't look like he was worried for _Dean_.

He didn't know whether to swear or cry, so he settled for smiling weakly. 'Hey, Sammy.'

Sam doesn't even attempt a smile. 'Punching walls again, huh? Thought you'd gotten over that one.'

'Yeah, well, you know me. I'm nothing if not predictable.' He sat down awkwardly in the chair beside Sam's bed, looking up at his brother. But Sam turned his face away, refusing to meet Dean's gaze, because he knew what his brother was going to say next, and he was so damn tired of justifying everything to Dean. This wasn't something his brother could understand, it wasn't something his brother could help him through.

'Dammit, Sammy, look at me,' Dean growled, his voice hoarse with worry and guilt. Sam raised his eyes reluctantly, the emotion displayed in them completely unfathomanble.

'Sam, why did you-?' Damn his voice, failing him on the last words like that.

Turns out he didn't need to say any more, Sam understood what he meant just fine. 'I've already explained all this, Dean,' he said and oh, he sounded so tired.

'Yeah, well excuse me if I don't get how killing yourself isn't a shit plan,' Dean said, more loudly than he'd intended. 'If we're gonna do this, we're gonna to it together, you hear me? We go down swinging, and we go _together_, because that's the way it is, that's the way it's always been, and I didn't sell my soul just so you could kill yourself later.'

'Don't pull that one on me, Dean,' Sam said, almost apologetically. 'I already told you why. Lucifer-'

'Is in your head, I get it.'

'It's not just that, Dean! I see him, I hear him, I feel him – that's okay, I can live with that. I can't banish him anymore, but I know he's not real so it's okay. At least, that's what I thought. But he _is _real, Dean, and I have to stop him, and this is the only way that I can do that.'

'Really, Sam? 'Cause the last time I looked, Lucifer was back in Hell, where you stuck him, back in the box with Michael for eternity.'

Sam looked away. 'Yes. And no. I don't understand it all, Dean, but please, you have to trust me. I know what I'm doing.'

'Do you, Sam? You expect me to believe that?'

'Yes! Listen, Lucifer… He really is here. Not just in my head, he's here. And he's in Hell too.'

'What, like some kind of weird time travel, two-places-at-once kind of deal?' This didn't even make sense anymore, and Dean could punch Sam for sticking to his delusions, his 'river in Egypt', except he couldn't, because this was his fault, and right now he'd sooner put a bullet through his temples than do anything more to hurt Sammy.

'I don't know. Maybe, yeah. But the point is, he lives _through _me. I get hurt, he gets hurt.'

'So you die, he dies?'

'I figured. As long as I'm alive, I'm dangerous, Dean. That's why…'

'Bullshit. We've been down this road before, Sam. The 'I'm dangerous, I shouldn't be alive' road, and I'm damned if I'm going down it again. You're not dangerous, you're just fine. Hell, I'm more dangerous than you – you know what I did down there before I got back topside.' He flinched internally at the memory, like he always does, but ploughed on, pressing home his advantage. 'You're going to get better, Sam, and we're going to hunt down these sons of bitches and kick their asses. But neither of us is doing anything alone, you hear me? We've both done some crazy shit in our time, Sam, we've both made our mistakes, but you saved the whole damn world, so the least you can do is stick around to appreciate it.'

'And what about Lucifer, Dean? What if something happens?'

'Like what?'

'I don't know – he takes me over?'

Dean knew he wouldn't. Knew he _couldn't_ – Dean had seen that future, the future where he faced Lucifer in his brother's body, and he'd averted it, he'd changed things. That wasn't going to happen, not on his watch. 'We figure something out. Like we always do. But what we _don't _do is kill ourselves, okay?'

Sam looked away again, frustration in his face, but he said nothing. There was nothing _to_ say. It was easy for Dean to be so sure of the way things would turn out – he wasn't the one who might turn into Satan at a moment's notice. And Sam was just so tired of wondering when he might flip next – and seeing Dean's face when it finally happened. He'd spent his entire life disappointing people – first Dad, then Dad _and _Dean, then himself, then Dean, then the whole entire world, and now back to Dean again.

And he just wanted it to stop.

The door opened suddenly and Dean turned to see a doctor enter. 'Mr Winchester?'

Dean ran a hand over his face and stood, not looking at Sam, trying to quell the frustration he still felt from their unfinished conversation. He'd had the last word, sure, but Sam sure as hell hadn't been listening. 'Yeah?'

'We've run some tests on your brother-' (Dean couldn't help but notice how the doctor addressed him and not Sam, as though Sam couldn't hear them, as though he was already too far gone for it to matter.) '-and we are happy to discharge him. We're confident that, given time, he shall make a full physical recovery. However, with cases like his, it is accepted procedure to admit patients to a mental hospital for a forty-eight hours minimum observation period. So if you could fill out this form for Pine Falls Hospital, we'll call for a vehicle to take him – and you – there.'

Dean had been expecting this, he'd been told about it last night by a nurse, but it still felt all wrong. Taking Sam to a mental hospital was like admitting defeat, admitting that his brother really was off the rails. He didn't like that idea, but, well, he lked the idea of coming back to the motel one day and finding Sam dead even less. So he filled out the form.

'Hey, Sammy,' he said, when the doctor had gone. 'Let's hope there's no wraiths this time, huh?'

His weak attempt at humor sounded pathetic even to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you all for the lovely reviews!

FYI, this fic has practically turned into an AU after all the 7x17 spoilers that have been released lately.

I'll explain in more detail my Lucifer-Sam theory later, but it's nearly midnight and I'm tired and I have to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow so I'll do it later. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

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><p>'Sam and Dean Hetfield?'<p>

They'd arrived at Pine Falls Hospital nearly three quarters of an hour ago and been told to sit on the two beaten-up old sofas that squatted in the corner of the small reception area by the lady behind the desk with the fake fingernails (the lady, that is, not the desk). Pine Falls Hospital was one of those small places that looks like it's only just staying afloat by making drastic cuts that included anything that wasn't strictly necessary, like a new paint job. But hey, it was serviceable, and Sam and Dean certainly weren't used to staying in places that could be described as 'classy'.

Now, Dean looked up to see a nurse in a loose white coat standing over them, long dark hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and a clipboard under her arm. He stood quickly and nodded, accepting the hand she offered.

'I'm Dean, this is my brother Sam.'

'Dr Gillian Keyes,' the nurse- or rather, _doctor_ said. 'I'll be looking after you while you're in this facility. I can't promise that it's gonna be fun, but I'll do all I can to help you get through this. I understand that this must be a tough time for both of you, and everyone gets through this kind of thing in their own way and their own time. That's okay. But it's my job to be helpful, so I'm here, okay?' She spoke professionally, her words short and to the point, and Dean had to be grateful that she wasn't the bleeding-heart, touchy-feely, 'let's all talk about your emotions and hold hands' type. The last thing he needed was anyone's pity.

'Do you want to come and settle into your room, Sam?' She spoke carefully, testing the water, seeing just how crazy Dean's little brother really was, but she was also sensitive, kind; no-nonsense but with a good bedside manner, and Dean had to admit that she was good at this.

Sam stood now and smiled tiredly at Dr Keyes. It was an obligatory movement of muscles, part of his normal ritual when meeting people, a force of habit – not a sign of happiness or contentment – and Dean clenched his jaw when he saw that the smile didn't even reach his little brother's eyes. 'I guess.'

'Great. In that case, if you'll follow me?' She turned and led them away from the reception area and down a corridor with slightly off-white, almost yellowish walls with cracks and flaking paint, and linoleum flooring. Dean watched his brother carefully, seeing how he took it all in, but when he saw the defeated, almost uncaring look in Sammy's eyes, Dean had to look away, and his gaze fell on Dr Keyes. She walked very upright, with a straight back and long, determined, confident strides. She certainly seemed trustworthy. After all these years, Dean liked to think that he was a pretty good judge of character. And hey, it'd gotten him this far, so evidently it wasn't all bull.

'It's not the Savoy, but you should be pretty comfortable,' Dr Keyes said, opening the door to Sam's room and showing them in. The room was small and square, with a little, slightly rickety-looking hospital bed, a bedside table and a chair. That was pretty much it.

Dean swallowed as he looked around – it was pretty grim. Fuck that, it was… He'd never thought he'd see the day when Sammy ended up in a place like this.

_No_. He couldn't think like that. Sam would get better, they'd get through this. Like they always did. They bounced back. Bounced back all the way from Heaven and Hell, a couple of times. This was like a cakewalk compared to busting Sam out of Hell. They could do this. They _would _do this. They had to.

It was just so fucking unfair. Why did all the shit land on them? Hadn't they done enough, given enough? They'd saved the entire damn world, did that count for nothing?

If there _was_ a God up there, Dean would throttle Him.

'Visiting hours are 11-4, Mr Hetfield,' Dr Keyes said, bringing Dean back to reality with a bump. 'I'll show you around some more now, if you like – although if you prefer you can just get used to the room and we'll have a tour later on.'

Dean glanced over to Sam, who didn't seem to even be listening, much less care. 'Sure, why not?' he said, turning back to Dr Keyes. He couldn't face any more time alone with Sam. At least with Dr Keyes around he could avoid any more Lucifer-orientated conversations in which both brothers attempted not to speak about anything important – like their emotions, or shit like that.

'Okay,' agreed Dr Keyes. 'Actually, there's another patient here who I was hoping could give you a hand settling in, Sam.'

Under normal circumstances, Dean and Sam could convey almost anything through a simple shared look – it was an art form they'd perfected almost unconsciously, dating back to when Dean could warn Sam off a particular subject if it was likely to piss their father off, and it came in very handy on hunts. Under normal circumstances, this might be a moment when they would exchange one of their looks, commenting on Dr Keyes' statement, reading each other's thoughts on the subject in an instant.

Of course, under normal circumstances, they wouldn't be here in the first place.

'Great,' Dean found himself saying, but his heart wasn't in it and his mouth was dry, so it came out rasping and emotionless.

Dr Keyes chuckled slightly, misreading the thoughts behind his words. 'Don't worry, he's not like some of the more colorful characters we've got around here. He's pretty quiet, keeps to himself. I guess I'm just trying to get him to come out a bit, y'know?' She sighed a little. 'It could do him some good. You too, Sam. It pays to have someone on the inside who knows the ropes. It'll make your short stay here that bit easier.'

Dean had to admit that it made sense. Just as long as they weren't tethered with some nutjob. All he wanted was to get Sam better and get out of here, chalk this one up to experience, move on. He wasn't exactly good at dwelling on things he found difficult or uncomfortable. Generally, his tactic was to tell himself he was fine until he was so numb it was actually true.

But this? This he just wanted to forget as soon as possible. He wanted his brother to be the way he once had been, before all this had landed on his doorstep.

'Okay.'

'Thank you,' Dr Keyes said earnestly. 'I'll introduce you to him, then. His name's Dean.'

-/-

The file said that Dean, the mystery amnesiac with no last name, suffered from 'amnesia and religious psychosis', but Gillian just saw him as the silent man with the sad eyes who couldn't even remember his own name and who had only ever uttered one word 'Dean'. All the other doctors in the facility seemed to have given up on his ever speaking properly again – he had been here for over six months, after all, and he seemed to show few signs of improvement.

When he first came here, he had been terrified, and no one – including himself – had known why. He would have nightmares, he would suddenly start crying or screaming for no reason, he saw things that weren't there. So, yes, he'd improved since then, but it had been months and still there were no words.

The other doctors had written him off. Gillian, however, was less easily deterred.

Apart from the amnesia and silence, she couldn't tell what was wrong with him; she for one had certainly never seen any evidence of the religious psychosis. Sometimes Dean would draw, and when he did, his drawings inevitably took on a sinister tone, showing dark scenes with barely discernable figures lurking in the shadows. Some of these figures had wings, so perhaps that's what the file was referring to when it mentioned religious psychosis. But it didn't seem anything too terrible. Sure, the pictures were freaky, and they showed that Dean had certainly been through something horrible, or was at least having unpleasant nightmares (which she knew anyway, and which was part of the reason most of his sleep was drug-induced), but they didn't necessarily point to insanity.

Dean was… confusing.

She was glad, though, that the Hetfield brothers had agreed to be introduced to him. It would do him good to meet some people properly, and perhaps it might encourage him out of his shell a little. There was always the possibility that even semi-normal human interaction would help in cases such as his. She certainly hoped so, anyway. There was just something about him that made her want to help, something about the bruised look in his eyes, the mixture of trust and tragedy…

She shook off these uncomfortable thoughts as she led the brothers to the courtyard where she knew they'd find Dean. It wasn't good to dwell on such thoughts and anyway, she had work to do.

'Here,' she said, turning to look back at the Hetfield brothers before pushing open the door to the courtyard. 'He's here.'

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><p>Thanks for reading! Castiel returns tonight and I can barely hold in all my excitement and feels. I may be updating this story from beyond the grave, depending on whether I drown in tears or not... ! Anyway, thanks y'all, and remember - reviews are love!<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** After episode 7x17, this has turned into a full-blown Alternative Canon, but hey, there you go.

7x17 was... Well, there were some really awesome, heart-breaking moments, and some great parallels between that episode and 5x04 'The End', but I can't tell you how frustrated I am that Dean and Sam have just waltzed off leaving Castiel helpless _again_. *sigh* I suppose that means I'll just have to keep writing pretty much Castiel-centric fics to soothe my pain... !

Anyway, this is the last chapter! I hope you've all enjoyed reading this fic as much as I have writing it. I can't tell you how much your lovely reviews mean to me, so thank you all for being so kind =] Perhaps I'll see you over at one of my other fics? If not, thanks for joining me on this ride, and I hope you like the last chapter!

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><p>Today the sky is the colour of waiting, lingering palely somewhere between blue and gray. A mournful breeze picks up a few of the brown leaves on the ground, skittering and scraping them over the concrete in a lacklustre parody of a ballroom dance.<p>

It is very quiet, but not quite silent; he can hear the lone, whispering call of a single bird as it flits around the courtyard, never quite alighting, never quite at home. He can hear the muffled sounds of voices inside the hospital, merging together into a buzz at the back of his mind. He can hear his heart, slow and steady and so very fragile. Once he had no need of that steady, comforting beat to stay alive.

He doesn't know where that thought comes from, so he methodically files it away inside his brain, along with all the other unexplainable things he thinks and feels. He places them carefully in a little, tidy corner halfway between his memories and his dreams, in his Cabinet of Uncertainties.

This lack of any particular sound is at once calming and worrying, because he feels like he should be able to hear so much more. Like he was once able to hear a mouse breathing, the displacement of air beneath a ladybird's wing, the voices of his brothers and sisters as they called to him.

Another thought for the Cabinet of Uncertainties, he reflects wearily. They seem to be coming more frequently these days; he doesn't know if this is a good thing or not. The doctors – and the kind nurse – all seem to think that remembering his old life will help. He is not so sure. Here, now, he is… not happy, exactly, but content, and what little he has recalled of the past so far has been… unpleasant. Distressing. Violent. Bloody. Pain-ridden. Uncertain. Grief-stricken. Lonely.

Guilty.

_Traitor._

The guilt is worst. Now, whenever he hears that name, the one that is not his, the one that he has stolen anyway, the one that, until recently, was the only link he had with his past life – '_Dean'_ – whenever he hears that name, a heaviness settles in his stomach, a sickness comes to his throat, his eyes drag themselves shut and his whole being longs for absolution. Freedom. Forgiveness. No, that's wrong – not even that. His whole being longs for just the slightest chance. To apologise. To make things right.

These feelings frighten him as he tries to lock his Cabinet of Uncertainties tightly shut, bar his mind against such thoughts. Emotions are messy things that feel alien – unfamiliar – leaden - in his heart. Almost like he has yet to learn the meaning of each new one he experiences.

If this is what he feels when he remembers what may or may not be his past – and surely this guilty conscious, heavy as a waterlogged coat, is too real, too unrelenting, too painful to be merely dreamt? – then perhaps the doctors are wrong when they urge him to remember. Perhaps it would be better to forget the man named Dean, if his remembrance is so painful.

Perhaps he should accept that he _is _Dean now, and, despite whatever else he may once have been, he is content here, sitting in the courtyard, looking up at a watery sky.

Voices approach, the hum at the back of his mind growing louder, demanding his attention as he hears the click of a door opening behind him. He makes no move to turn and see who has come to him. It will be either a nurse with tired eyes or a nurse with kind eyes. It won't make any difference to him. They are all the same.

'Dean?'

The voice is gentle, and he cannot stop the spread of warmth at the hearing of it – it is the voice of the kind, dark-haired nurse, his favourite. The one who talks to him like he is a human, a sentient being, not the strange, silent man who cannot remember his past that he is.

'Remember what I said the other day about a new patient, helping him to settle in?' She comes around to face him now and he tilts his head up slightly so he can see her face. She looks tired and hopeful and open, and he wants to please her, to thank her somehow for everything she's done for him, so he looks directly at her and nods slightly.

Seeming to relax slightly, she looks over his shoulder and addresses someone who is there. 'Come and meet Dean.'

He doesn't stand as two men appear, but he immediately feels wary. It's another left-over from his memories, and he doesn't understand why it makes him believe that everyone is a threat. Do normal people avoid physical contact so determinedly, do they feel that everyone they see could hurt them, could be harbouring some great evil secretly within themselves?

One of the two men is tall and tired with eyes that used to try but gave up pretending long ago. They still care, though, deep down, and there is a spark of defiance in them yet. The other man is also tall, but not so much as the first, and when this man sees him, he jerks away suddenly, fear, anger and joy chasing themselves across his face in quick succession.

He doesn't understand what he has done to warrant such a response. Neither, apparently, does the nurse, because she asks, 'Hey, are you alright?'

He isn't listening. Suddenly his throat feels dry and his heart is hammering. This is a new sensation, and not altogether pleasant. He examines these symptoms scientifically; perhaps they mean that he is nervous about meeting these new people? He reflects that it is also possible that he is worried about having upset this man.

'I'm fine,' the man is saying. He doesn't sound fine. 'I just…' He swallows. 'His name is Dean, you say?' His voice breaks slightly but he regains it quickly; the slip was barely noticeable, but _he_ has noticed it all the same.

The nurse affirms that he is correct. Then: 'Do you recognize him?' she asks.

The man nods.

_The man nods_.

Now he is looking up at this man with more interest, an almost desperate interest, the kind of interest a drowning man would pay to the lifeguard sent to recover him.

It is possible that the feelings he is currently experiencing are neither nerves nor worry. He realizes that is it just possible that they may be recognition.

The nurse and the tall man have moved away, he didn't see them go, although they are still close, just enough steps away to give him and this other man some semblance of privacy. He wonders why they have done this. He looks up at this man, studying his face, trying to find something in it that he recognizes.

The man is sturdily built, broad but not over-muscled, managing to be slim at the same time as strong. His clothes are scruffy and unkempt: a pair of old jeans, an ancient, scraggy shirt and a leather jacket over it. His hair is short and light, loitering ambiguously somewhere between a mousy brown and a dirty blonde. His face… His face is oval, with pleasingly regular features and a smattering of freckles.

But his eyes are the eyes that haunt his dreams.

For the first time since he has come here, he wants to say something. In a moment, he is on his feet, although he cannot remember rising, and this man, the man with the _eyes_, is so close to him – when did he move forward? – and yet it feels so effortless, so completely normal, and the man isn't moving away, he seems just as locked in the moment as _he_ is…

He opens his mouth to speak, but his throat is dry and the words stick in it like burrs on the belly of a badger. His tongue rasps uselessly against the roof of his mouth; it's been so long since he uttered a single syllable, and he can't bring his mouth to form the words.

So he decides to say the only thing he knows how to, the only word that isn't like a stone in his mouth, the only word that seems to fit on his lips. It comes almost unconsciously to mind, like it has been there the whole time, just waiting for him to realize its importance.

He looks up at this man who he doesn't recognize, doesn't remember, and knows instinctively that this is right. This is the man who hovers in the corners of his eyes, this is the man whose name he stole, whose name is forever on his lips, and his mouth forms the word of its own accord, taking control from him gently, but it doesn't worry him because it feels _right._

His voice, when it comes, is dry and deep and grating, forcing its way up his throat with thrilling determination. It is so abrasive that even he barely understands what it is he is saying, and so he swallows with an emotion he now recognizes as nerves, and tries again.

This time it is easy.

'Dean.'


End file.
